


Tactics

by Joodiff



Series: Joodiff's adult WtD fic from FFN [4]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sunday morning, Grace is still in bed, Boyd's just out of the shower and the chances are they're going to be very late for their proposed stroll in the park...</p>
<p>
  <i>Adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tactics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gemenied](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/gifts).



**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_Pr0n originally written for Gemenied’s birthday. :)_

* * *

**Tactics**

by Joodiff

* * *

 

It’s a pleasantly warm Sunday morning in Greenwich, the wide soft bed is very comfortable and Peter Boyd has just nonchalantly wandered out of his en suite bathroom wearing nothing more than a faintly reflective expression and a crisp white towel. Therefore it cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, be her fault that they are going to be late for their proposed stroll in the park prior to a quiet lunch in the lee of the Observatory. Boyd doesn’t yet know they’re going to be late, but Grace does. She’s known it since the tantalisingly naked rear view disappeared from sight some twenty minutes ago. The oncoming front view’s pretty good too – even with the more interesting bits obscured by said white towel – but it was the rear view that finally sealed their fate. Age and wisdom are absolutely no barrier to good old-fashioned lechery of the shallowest kind. And he really does have a very nice backside. And nice thighs. And –

“Are you actually getting up today?” Boyd inquires mildly, breaking into her pleasant reverie.

As he draws closer, Grace makes a token effort to appear cooperative by sitting up. It’s not her fault they’re going to be late, and it’s _definitely_ not her fault that the covers dutifully comply with the laws of gravity and fall away to leave her bare breasts perfectly exposed. It’s not _her_ fault that he looks and keeps looking, either. She may not be a young woman – or even exactly a middle-aged woman – and everything may not be quite as… perky… as it once was, but the bedroom curtains are still more than partially closed causing gentle shadows which undoubtedly help him focus far more on quantity than quality – and quantity Grace has. In fact, quantity to the extent that having to more-or-less prise him forcibly out of her cleavage on such occasions isn’t completely unknown… a fact that’s extremely good for her ego.

Grace smirks. “You were saying…?”

“Unfair tactics,” Boyd grumbles, pointedly raising his gaze to her face.

He’s close enough now that she can feel the humid heat radiating off his body and smell the strong scent of fresh, expensive soap on his skin. He’s also close enough for Grace to make a direct assault. So she does. Brazenly slipping a hand under his towel is easy. Finding her way to her target is easy, too. Follow the long muscular line of his thigh up towards the point of his hip and veer left. She grins, he growls and life is suddenly very good. He’s still damp from the shower, but she’s not complaining as she shamelessly cradles his balls and asks artlessly, “Problem?”

He might be a few years her junior, but Boyd’s no spring chicken, either. No-one’s ever bothered to tell his cock that. It immediately registers a healthy interest in the proceedings. Nowhere near ready to stand to attention and salute, not yet, but that’s not a problem – Grace has a lot of faith. Faith based firmly on experience. Boyd doesn’t bother replying to her gentle needling. He just puts his hands squarely on his hips and gazes down at her, and even if the deep dark eyes suddenly look more than a little foxy, his expression is wonderfully courteous. Patient.

This is role reversal of the most amusing kind. She full of devilment, and he regarding her with strained tolerance. That tolerance won’t last, and that’s half the fun – to subtly manoeuvre him along the darkly erotic path inch by careful inch until his patience snaps and gives her exactly what she wants. All of it. And more. Grace smiles up at him, deliberately coquettish. It’s probably not the most appropriate look for a woman of her age, but who the hell cares? It’s just the two of them and the chance of an intimate Sunday morning’s wicked fun.

She releases him, but only for as long as it takes to catch hold of the edge of his towel and unhitch it with a deft twist. It falls obediently to the floor leaving her with a fascinating view of increasingly excited male genitalia. Boyd shakes his head solemnly at her folly. He asks, “Happy now?”

He probably would actually _have_ the moral high ground over her – if his cock wasn’t heading slowly but inexorably for the perpendicular.

They really are going to be _very_ late for their stroll.

Boyd isn’t the only one whose body is getting into the spirit of things. Bits of Grace are starting to ache in a not unpleasant way, and certain other bits are starting to throb warmly. She feels quite smug about it, too. Oh, yes, there’s plenty of life left in the old girl yet – and she’s more than happy to demonstrate the fact to him. This time she ignores his heavy balls and goes straight for his impressive hard-on, wrapping her fingers around its girth, squeezing slightly just to feel the distinct answering twitch. His breath hisses out loudly, but he doesn’t say a word. Grace doesn’t look up but she instinctively knows he’s closed his eyes. It doesn’t take very much imagination to guess what visions are suddenly chasing through his head.

She starts to stroke him, almost experimentally at first, and it has the desired effect – he’s heading for rock hard now. Hard and hot, and when she rubs her thumb gently across the exposed soft crown he groans, a deep animal sound that causes an automatic answering response in her body. She wants him. Wants him deep inside her where he fits so incredibly well. But that real devilment’s still in her, and Grace deliberately leans forward to flick just the very tip of her tongue against the velvety head of his cock. Boyd groans again, and as his hips arch towards her his hands abruptly grasp her shoulders. She knows what he wants. He knows she knows what he wants. It’s a game, and who ultimately wins will only be a matter of semantics.

The bedcovers are in her way. Squirming free without releasing her grip on him, Grace isn’t remotely surprised when he makes a determined grab for her breasts. Boyd has a thing for cleavage and he also has something of a thing for shapely legs. She wins on both counts – a distinct advantage when quietly endeavouring to keep the undivided attention of an attractive younger man who’s notoriously capricious when it comes to relationships. She lets Boyd have his fun – it’s hardly a chore, after all. He knows what he’s doing. There’s no adolescent fumbling, no almost-but-not-quite-there. He rolls her nipples between his fingers and thumbs, stirs the deep nerves, the ones that echo hungrily much lower in her body, and now she groans, too. He grins savagely at the sound and squeezes hard.

This is where everything between them gets reduced to the most exciting, primitive level. There won’t be many words now, not even from her; not until they’re lying sleepy and sated in an unselfconscious tangle of limbs. There’s simply no need, not when they’re so very good at tactile communication. Boyd shifts his hips again, pushing impatiently into her grip, and Grace knows he stubbornly won’t ask her for the one thing he so greedily wants. His obstinacy works against him, gives her the advantage, and she calculatingly releases him and pushes him back. She’s wise enough not to show her amusement at the irritable, frustrated flash of dark fire that blazes in his eyes for a just moment before the façade of blasé indifference slams firmly back into place.

Without a word, Boyd drops down next to her on the bed, immediately sprawling out on his back, one hand behind his head, the fingers of the other tracing slowly down her spine until she turns to him. Now there is a perfectly calculated amount of mischief and charm in him, slyly deployed to get him exactly what he wants. Sadly, it’s a little too difficult to resist and Grace eases against him, quickly finding his lips with hers. The pace has slowed, and she takes her time kissing him, enjoying the slow exploration of admittedly very familiar territory. They are good at this, at the thorough, unhurried kisses that add increasing weight to their joint arousal, at the slow gentle touching that promises so much. Skin-to-skin contact, smooth and exciting. She can feel the potent hardness caught between them, can feel the muscular potential of the man holding her.

Boyd kisses her neck, the soft bristle of his beard distinctive and stimulating, and Grace arches in blatant solicitation, wanting so much more from him. This could still go one of two ways – the leisurely or the impatient – and though the ultimate direction is entirely dependent on his whim, it’s Grace who has the power to push him one way or the other. She knows it, but maybe Boyd doesn’t, and as far as she’s concerned, in this at least, ignorance is definitely bliss. Maybe he _does_ know and simply chooses to ignore it. It doesn’t matter to her – she has the power now, and by the time they reach the point where she loses her hold on him she simply won’t care.

Age brings confidence, at least. Confidence and an enjoyable lack of inhibition. As she starts to kiss his broad chest, Grace fancies that the young woman she once was wouldn’t recognise her older, bolder self. It’s another distinct advantage she has over her younger would-be rivals. However good Boyd has always been at keeping certain aspects of his private life very private indeed, over the years Grace has seen some spectacularly beautiful young women come and go, appearing on his arm for a week or two and then disappearing just as quickly as he gets bored and moves on. He’s too old and too jaded to waste much time with women who don’t hold his interest for more than a few days, and Grace is very well aware that holding his interest requires spontaneity, impudence and the continual piquing of his curiosity.

Kissing her way down from his chest, she hears Boyd’s sharp intake of breath and immediately smiles triumphantly against his skin. She’s got a few ideas about where this is going to go, and most of them involve her assertively straddling his hips and proving to him – yet again – that there’s absolutely no substitute for age and experience. Almost unconsciously Grace grinds against him as she explores the gentle curve of his stomach and trails her lips across the brutal scars that remind her of a terrifying day thankfully now lost in their joint past. There’s musk mixing with soap now, an exciting fragrance that she breathes in deeply before moving lower still, following the trail of short dark hairs that leads down and down.

His cock rears at her and she captures it easily with hand and mouth; for the first time in what feels like an age, Boyd utters something almost coherent, his voice firmly in the lower, rougher registers. “Oh, God…”

It’s not the act itself, not really. It’s a combination of things, not the least of which her self-assurance – a peculiarity that actually still surprises her. Sex is as easily analysed by the psychologist in Grace as any other human interaction and she knows better than most how to exploit the important and too-often ignored power of the human mind – _what_ she does to him is almost less important than _how_ she does it. Such academic thoughts are quickly lost, though, as she concentrates on licking and sucking him, using lips and teeth and tongue to their maximum advantage. Boyd is already shaking, the increasing tension in his muscles is so strong, and she’s grateful for his immense self-control. He doesn’t thrust blindly into her mouth, doesn’t try to drive himself deeper than she wants to take him.

It turns her on, too. A lot. What she effortlessly does to him. Both the sensory feedback and the emotional and mental stimulation it gives her. Grace feels gloriously empowered, not at all subservient. She only does what she wants, and she only does it because she wants to. Does it as much for her as for him. It makes her feel dominant and assertive; she’s never understood the feminist objections, and she doesn’t care to try. It probably helps that in his own highly idiosyncratic way Boyd absolutely adores her and she knows it. On a far more base level, it really doesn’t hurt that he’s sleek and hard and fresh from the shower, either.

“Christ…” he finally manages, a very deep, guttural sound. “Grace…”

It’s a plea, but she doubts even Boyd knows what it’s a plea for. A plea to stop, a plea to continue. Neither. Both. His balls are drawn up tight, and she can feel a viscosity on her tongue that has nothing to do with her own saliva; can taste the sudden intense saltiness of it, too. Fork in the road, decision to make. It’s an easy decision. Grace leaves him with a last, lingering sweep of her tongue and as she looks up at him he takes hold of her again, his strength insolently understated. The dark eyes are burning with want and need, but it isn’t just Boyd who’s more than ready. She doesn’t hesitate, moves over him, across him, her aching vulnerability completely open to his questing fingers.

Holding his gaze without fear or embarrassment, she lets him see quite clearly what his expert touch does to her. Strong, deft fingers stroke and explore, seeking and finding every perfect spot to make her breathe fast and hard and to reach behind her so she can dig her fingertips into the solid muscles of his thighs. One finger, then two make a skilful invasion; gentle enough but firm, unmistakable. At the same time his thumb strokes rhythmically against her, and the internal and external sensations blend together into an intense pleasure that runs along her nerve-endings like wildfire. He doesn’t tease and Grace is inordinately grateful for it, but she wants more – much more. Not just his fingers, but his big, blunt-headed cock.

Boyd seems to sense the change, because he withdraws his hand, moves under her slightly and grasps her hips. He’s already burning, and he’s going to make her burn, too. And she desperately wants him to. He says huskily, “Now…?”

Grace bears down in reply, using one hand to guide him. Feels so different, feels so good, and she takes a moment to enjoy it fully before settling more purposefully. She closes her eyes for a moment, concentrating hard on the exquisite sensation of being slowly and relentlessly filled. It’s a primeval need, an animal thing way beyond sexual politics and civilised ideals of equality; a raw need to be possessed. A need she’ll never admit to aloud, least of all to him, but nonetheless feels keenly. When she opens her eyes again Boyd is watching her, a mixture of curiosity and satisfaction clear in his expression. The strong hands on her hips remain steady, ready to guide her when she needs it.

Grace looks down at him. It’s a tiny moment, but it’s a shared moment; a tiny kiss of time when they are completely open to each other, all their games and struggles pushed aside. A moment not just of lust, but of love, too. Deep, abstruse, far too difficult to define in mere words. So they don’t try, either of them. There’s no point – they understand perfectly. Everything they are to each other, everything they’ve ever been, the good, the bad and the downright ugly; all of it and so much more caught in one brief, intense moment. Sex is just a tiny part of it – extremely enjoyable but breathtakingly insignificant compared to all the things that go so deep into the heart of them both.

They move together, lovers who are perfectly attuned to each other; slow at first, but building the momentum steadily. It takes a practised effort on her part to stop thinking and to just feel; to simply be. If she never learns anything else from him, she’s learnt that. Too quickly, however, Boyd’s impatience starts to show, and that makes her grin. She doesn’t even bother to hide it, isn’t remotely bothered when he growls at her and bucks his hips hard in retribution. It’s just a game; there’s no fear in Grace that he would ever actually hurt her. She simply grins again, but his impatient conflict isn’t difficult to understand – he’s too used to being in control, too used to being the one who makes the decisions and sets the pace wherever he is, whatever he’s doing. Letting _her_ set the pace, letting her ride him as hard as she chooses appeals to some strange submissive quirk in his nature, she knows that, but it doesn’t quite work for him. Ironically, in a way that’s ultimately good for both of them; it slows him down, makes sure she’s a lot closer to the edge than he is before he finally loses patience altogether.

She’s not quite there, but she’s reached a sweet spot where every downward movement of her hips and every upward thrust of his sends shuddering jolts of pleasure through her. It’s good; it’s very good. The pressure’s building and if they just keep –

Boyd growls again, and brings his strength to bear, keeping them tightly locked together as he rolls them over, neatly reversing their positions. Now Grace is looking up and he’s looking down, and that’s good, too. The weight of his body, the quick, hard movements of his hips; his hand rough on her breast, his mouth hot and demanding on her throat – it all feeds into the mounting tension inside her. Just a few more strong, rhythmic thrusts and –

She’s there. Her nails are biting cruelly into his shoulders, but Grace doesn’t know it. Her legs are locked around his hips, and she’s barely aware of that, either, as the intensity of her climax tears through her in a long, shuddering wave, each of his thrusts now an additional counterpoint to the all-consuming need to slam herself up against him, to stretch the intense pleasure out as much as she can. She thinks she hears herself crying out, but if she does, it’s lost in the roar that breaks from Boyd as he follows her into that desperate, wonderful nowhere place. A part of Grace instinctively knows he’s coming deep inside her, and another part of her simply doesn’t care about anything as her own last contractions recede and she briefly drifts into a serene dream state.

It’s slow, her recovery. Slow and very sweet. Almost as satisfying as the shattering release that preceded it. Things gradually start to make sense again. Boyd is heavy and torpid, his head is buried in her shoulder, and she can feel his broad ribcage heaving as he takes in air. She moves just a fraction, and it’s enough to make him whimper slightly, the lingering sensitivity evidently too much to bear. He’s at his most vulnerable now, incapable of directed movement, incapable of defending himself, but Grace won’t be able to wait for long for him to recover; it’s already becoming something of a struggle to breathe properly under his weight. Gently stroking his shoulders, she murmurs, “Peter.”

The answer is an incoherent noise. Deep, brusque. An acknowledgement of her presence, nothing more. Grace waits then taps his shoulder firmly, and eventually he reluctantly rolls onto his side, slipping free from her body but keeping her tightly held against him. It’s still not exactly comfortable, but at least she can breathe freely again. Carefully, she fidgets her way into a better position, drawing a vague moan of protest that goes nowhere. She can still feel him against her thigh, but that potent maleness is unmistakably softening. It’s not a disappointment. Grace has had exactly what she wanted, and she’s heading for equanimity and normality at a far faster rate than Boyd is. Later, he may well tease her mercilessly for it, for her tendency to latch back onto the mundane and the practical far more quickly than he ever does. He will probably claim once again that it proves she’s a damned sight more unromantic than he is, and she will smile coolly and tolerantly ignore him.

“Stop fidgeting,” he orders, his voice muffled by her shoulder.

“It’s getting late,” Grace says pragmatically.

“God’s sake, woman…”

She smiles and amuses herself by drawing spirals across his ribs with her fingertips. The resulting invective doesn’t surprise her. It’s probably something that’s covered by the Official Secrets Act, but bits of Boyd are extraordinarily ticklish. He pushes grumpily away from her, lies face down, one arm trailing loosely over the edge of the bed. Grace sits up and studies him indolently.

She’s right. He really does have a very nice backside.

_\- the end -_

**Author's Note:**

> "Tactics" was written as a birthday present for Geminied and was originally available on FFN. It's been missing in action for a while. ;)


End file.
